


Strangled

by orphan_account



Category: Persona 4
Genre: Community: badbadbathhouse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-27
Updated: 2009-01-27
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15386073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Originally posted on the Bad Bad Bathhouse. Shadow Dojima rails Dojima in the TV world, while Adachi watches through the TV.





	Strangled

 Well, this was unexpected.

What the hell was that Namatame doing, anyway? The image on the Midnight Channel had obviously been Nanako, but here was _Dojima_ instead, running around like a chicken with his head cut off and yelling his daughter's name over and over like a broken record.

Oh well. It wasn't according to plan, maybe – but there had never been much of a plan in the first place beside getting a few giggles over it all and watching the trainwreck. Hell, this was ten times better, really – maybe it was just the last dying scraps of his sense of morality speaking, but watching a little girl get fucked up just wouldn't be as fun.

Hell, who was he kidding, this would be brilliant because from day one, Adachi had wanted nothing more than to watch Dojima suffer.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The initial screening came first. The first night Dojima's Shadow aired on the Midnight Channel, Adachi scrambled towards the TV screen on his hands and knees, leaning as close as he could without jumping all the way in, grinning from ear to ear to see something so broken. Shadow Dojima had thrown away all the bullshit, all that horrendous pretense. This was who Dojima really was, Adachi knew it. He wanted that right there, that Dojima. God, it made him hard just looking.

The man on the screen wearing Dojima's face had his necktie loosened and his collar undone, and the shadow of stubble on his chin looked more like eleven than five-o-clock. He had a bottle in a paper bag in his right hand swinging back and forth carelessly. And he was smiling.

 _“Don't bother coming up here,”_ he said. _“You're just wasting your time. I don't need or care about any of you.”_ He took a swig from the bottle, making a sound of satisfaction when he was done. _“I feel fucking fantastic, how about that? Fuck the force. Fuck family. You can't live without me? Fine by me. I'm gone.”_ The shadow walked away, laughing, a jig in his step as he walked.

Adachi panted in front of the screen, watching Dojima's lips as they sucked the bottle, wanting more. It took all of his self-restraint not to jump right in the next night, but he wasn't stupid. This was a show, and he wasn't about to get his own ass burned on the hotplate.

Watching Dojima scrambling around helplessly in the shadow world was amusing as hell, of course – that asshole, always lording it over him, fetch that, do this, how incompetent can you _be_ , Adachi, all on that moral high horse of his even when he drank himself sick and had to be carried home like a pathetic sod – but the main course was yet to come.

Dojima stumbled his way through a never-ending red light district, the streets lined with bars and strip joints. Shadows that looked like drunken salarymen and prostitutes lined the streets, not a single one of them someone who would remember his name. There were no uniforms here, no children, no obligation. Dead wives were easily forgotten amidst new and exotic pleasures. It was a beautiful and dark escape route.

The streets wound upward, somehow, in some physics-defying spiral, and at the top there was a simple bar, cozy, dark. Dojima, panting and harried from his exertions, confused, lungs hoarse (he'd thought Nanako was lost here, but she couldn't be, he couldn't believe that), swatted aside a half-curtain entrance to see the bar empty but for a single patron standing opposite him, facing away from him and towards the bar.

He turned around. “Hey, Ryotaro,” his Shadow said, toasting him with a glass of cheap gin as he leaned back against the counter, one leg propped up on the lower rung of a barstool. “'Bout time you got here. You're the only one I wanna drink with.”

“Who the hell are you? And what the damn hell is going on?” Dojima demanded.

“Relax,” the Shadow said, loosening his tie even further with one hand. “You really need to do something about that temper of yours.”

Dojima was dead cold, looking at the thing with his face. “Tell me what's going on,” he repeated.

“Don't ask stupid questions,” the Shadow said, swirling his glass around in his hand. “Aren't you supposed to be a detective? You know exactly what all of this is about.” He paused, and took a long drink, throwing everything in the glass straight back without a wince. “Me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” The Shadow started walking a casual circle around his counterpart, confidence and calm in every stride. “It's about _me._ I'm sick of everything – this dead-end job catching scum and petty criminals, this stupid murder case, with the media and the higher-ups riding my ass every time I blink. I'm sick of working late nights for the _team_ or for the _greater good._ I'm sick of coming home late to a daughter who doesn't know me, who only _really_ loved her mother.”

The Shadow had barely even finished the sentence before Dojima was punching him in the face, hard, but the Shadow recovered almost immediately, laughing as he ran his hands through his hair. “You know it's true. I hate that I have to go home, have to take care of her. She's just another obligation, really, just like work. I want to forget her, forget everything.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dojima swung another punch, but the Shadow danced away, still laughing. “Don't you dare say another word about Nanako!”

The Shadow paused, pensive. “She looks a lot like her mother, doesn't she? It hurts, just looking at her. The reminder of how incompetent and helpless I am. And she needs me, God, I can't raise a kid. Because she's there, I can't fucking live in _peace!_ ”

“Shut up!” Dojima was shaking his head helplessly.

The Shadow ignored him. “I'm sick of grieving. I just need a distraction. I mean, really, when's the last time I even got _laid?_ ”

“Who cares?” Dojima barked. “That's not important.”

“Stop lying to yourself,” the Shadow approached him, cutting the distance between them abruptly and reaching his hand to Dojima's collar. “I'm so lonely. I'll take anyone that'll have me – of course, no one will – except, hey, maybe that Adachi fellow. Toru's pretty cute, isn't he?” The Shadow leaned in and whispered into Dojima's ear, and on the other side of the TV Adachi, his fly already unbuttoned and his hand down his pants, strained forward to hear the Shadow speak. “I've jerked off more than a few times, thinking about him, hot, naked, so eager to please. _Oh, Mr. Dojima._ ”

Dojima twitched violently and attempted to shove his Shadow off him, but the Shadow clung to his shoulders. “But that'll never happen. After all, I'm the only one who can stand me.” With that the Shadow drove his lips against Dojima's, working the resisting mouth, hands moving from shoulders to hair to waist to Dojima's chest, wasting no time in ripping open his shirt.

Dojima bit the Shadow's lip, drawing black-tinted blood, but the Shadow didn't stop, stripping him of his shirt and marching him backwards to the bar, using Dojima's tie as a leash, pulling it tight until Dojima gagged.

Adachi had been leaving off, teasing himself, afraid he'd come too soon, but seeing Dojima strangled, forced against the counter, his resistance useless, killed all Adachi's restraint. By the time the Shadow had Dojima's pants down, Adachi was coming hard into his hands, moaning like he didn't care what the old lady in the apartment above him heard – and fucking hell, he _didn't._

Dojima was giving up, now, his despair eating away at his resistance as Adachi trembled with the aftershocks of his orgasm. Dojima made some token struggles, all right, as the Shadow spun him around, threw him down over the counter, and began lubricating him by cracking open a can of beer and pouring it down the crevice of his ass. It only made it worse, and Dojima moaned between gritted teeth at the pain while Adachi felt himself getting hard again.

The Shadow mumbled bitter remorse in the tone of sweet nothings as he undid his own pants, revealing a throbbing erection that mirrored Dojima's own, shoving into Dojima hard enough to force a strangled cry out of him. “This is better, this is so much better,” the Shadow moaned. “So much better than hurting all the time. I've lost everything, anyway, I can't stand to watch myself fuck up everything else, too. They're better off without me. It'll just be you and me, me and me.” Skin slapped against skin, the sounds of the Shadow grunting melting with the piteous sounds emerging from Dojima's throat. The Shadow reached around and started pumping Dojima's cock as well, and it wasn't long before Dojima was bucking into it, sucking in breaths as his Shadow pulled the tie tight around his neck, cutting off his air, and Dojima spurted hot come into his Shadow's hand.

The Shadow came at the same time, of course (they were the same person, after all), swearing, one hand fisted on the tie and the other squeezing Dojima's hip as he continued to slam into Dojima until he'd emptied himself inside.

Dojima panted against the counter for a while, both of them in silence as the Shadow pulled out of him, wiping himself off with the remains of Dojima's shirt as he stuffed himself back into his pants.

The Shadow was the first to speak. “You get it now, don't you?”

Dojima's pants were around his ankles, his entire body aching, come leaking out of his ass as his cock hung limp under him. His eyes were almost closed, dry, heavy, empty. “I get it. You... are me.”

In front of the TV, Adachi came, fingers up his ass lubricated with his own come as he fucked himself, squeezing his cock hard enough to hurt in the best possible fucking way.

_Dojima._


End file.
